


The Priest's Weakness

by Esteliel



Category: La Comédie Humaine - Honoré de Balzac, Splendeurs et misères des courtisanes - Honoré de Balzac
Genre: Anal Sex, Captivity, Crossdressing, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Rape, Rescue Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 17:13:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19398709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: “Now, will you tell me your name? Or shall I tell you who I suspect you are?”Corentin groaned weakly as a memory brought back the sensation of a large hand clasped over his mouth and nose, cutting off his air.“Herrera,” he finally managed to force out, his tongue sluggish and not quite obeying his command yet.





	The Priest's Weakness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bacchantetriste](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bacchantetriste/gifts).



Corentin’s return had been just in time. When he arrived at Peyrade’s quarters, it was only a minute before a note from Contenson was delivered. It was not enough time for Peyrade to fill him in on all the details of the catastrophe that had occurred—but it was enough to know that there was no time left to lose.

That same evening, Corentin was hiding inside a carriage waiting around the corner from the house which they had finally identified as the place where Lydie was held captive.

“Are you certain this will work?”

Peyrade still looked pale and drawn. He seemed to have aged ten years overnight.

“When have our plans ever not worked? I promise, this evening you will hold her in your arms once more.”

“Should I not go inside with you?”

Corentin shook his head. “We have discussed this. It is too dangerous. They have already seen through your disguise once. We know that they watched you, or they never would have found Lydie. Don’t worry. I am prepared.”

He raised his basket of freshly washed linen, revealing beneath a carefully folded dress—an almost exact replica of the one Lydie had worn when she had been taken—a wig in the color of her hair, and beneath, a pistol.

“If I hear a gun, I will come in with our agents,” Peyrade said, still looking anxious. “If my Lydie…”

“No harm will come to her. She takes my place and leaves with the dirty laundry, while I take her place. It will be hours before anyone notices. And during that time, I will find a way to make my escape.”

“Contenson will wait for you,” Peyrade said. “I would wait myself, but—”

“You take Lydie to a safe place and stay with her. I will send word when everything is done.” Corentin smiled a little. “It will be a sight to see that false abbé in irons…”

They waited for a few more minutes. When the street was empty and it was the habitual time of the woman who did the washing for the house of ill repute where Herrera was hiding Lydie, Corentin left the carriage. A frayed bonnet that might once have been blue shaded his eyes. As he walked, faded petticoats and a stained apron shifted around his feet. He walked slowly, his shoulders bent, carrying two wicker baskets filled with clean linen—a sight that was so common in the streets that no one looked twice at him.

“Where’s Marie?” The man who opened the door for him gave him a suspicious look. He stank of cheap wine and had only a few of his teeth left.

“Ran of with some lad, the hussy,” Corentin said in a weary voice pitched somewhat higher than his natural way of speaking. “Some no-good porter from the Halles. Just you wait, she’ll be back in a week, once he’s drunk away her wages.”

The man let her inside. “Go up to the first floor for the dirty linen, all the way to the end of the corridor. Madame will be there to tell you where to bring the clean linen.”

With a grunt of acknowledgment, Corentin lifted his baskets and began climbing the stairs. The house was quiet—it was the sort of house where at this time of the morning, the last guests would have just left, while the first guests wouldn’t arrive for some hours.

There was a sound of someone moving on the wooden floorboards as he made it up to the first floor. At the end of the narrow corridor, he could see an open door—no doubt the linen closet the porter had spoken of. The small room was empty. For a moment, he wondered whether he should use the chance to quickly switch costumes—but he had heard the sound of steps earlier. Madame had to be nearby.

She came in just when he’d set down the basket, looking around at the pile of clean, folded laundry as if wondering where to deposit the sheets.

“You’re late, Marie. Come on, don’t just stand around, I’ve got work to do—oh!”

She stared at Corentin in surprise when she realized that it wasn’t Marie after all.

“Marie’s run off,” Corentin said, voice rough with exhaustion. “Twice the work for me today. Hand me the laundry and I’ll be gone.”

The woman nodded to a large wicker basket filled with stained sheets.

“Looks heavy,” Corentin muttered unhappily. He reached into his basket to pull out a little flask and lifted it to his lips, although he made certain not to drink any of it.

“Why, you hussy,” the madame said sharply, “you’re here to work!”

With a sullen look, Corentin held out the flask to her. After hesitating for a heartbeat, the woman hastily took hold of it and took a hearty swallow before returning it.

“Now make haste, I’ve got the entire floors upstairs to prepare for the night.”

Corentin stuffed his flask back into the basket, then turned to the shelves. He began to take the clean, folded sheets from the first basket and piled them into an empty spot.

Just when he reached out for the second basket, there was a thump. When he turned around in satisfaction, he found the madame on the floor, her eyes closed and her mouth parted as she snored.

With a smirk, Corentin produced a second, small bottle of brandy, this one without laudanum. He poured half over her dress, then propped it up in her hand. Hopefully, even if someone were to find her by accident, this would buy him time.

Then, quickly, he changed. The dirty servant’s guise went into his basket. With a cloth and a small bottle of water, he washed the dirt and makeup from his face that had given him the appearance of a tired, bent woman of forty or fifty years.

Then, he applied new makeup. It was harder to give himself the guise of a girl of twenty years, but if all went well, he would not have to take Lydie’s place for very long.

Finally, once he was dressed in Lydie’s clothes and had put on the wig, he retrieved a large ring of keys from the madame’s pockets. He had hidden both a small knife and gun beneath his clothes. Now he only had to find Lydie.

Fortunately, that was easier than he had feared. As soon as he began climbing the stairs to the next floor, he heard the soft sounds of a distant piano. The melody was familiar, as was the exquisite playing, imbued with a deep sadness.

Corentin had often listened to Lydie play the piano when he had come to visit Peyrade. There was no doubt in his mind that this could only be Lydie.

He had to climb all the way to the third floor before he found the room the sounds came from. Fortunately, the floor was empty—and the door behind which Lydie was playing was locked.

Hastily, Corentin unlocked the door with the keys he had stolen. The room he entered held a sumptuous bed and not much else—although in a corner by the window, a piano stood, where Lydie was seated.

She rose in shock when he entered, terror on her face; he made her a sign to remain quiet when he closed the door behind himself.

“Hush; I am a friend of your father,” he said in his own voice, once he had made certain that no one else had been hiding in a corner of the room. “Quiet now; you must do exactly what I tell you. There is no time to lose.”

Lydie gasped and turned away when he hastily pulled off the servant’s guise, but she obeyed readily when he told her to take off her own dress and slip into the worn, stained petticoats instead.

“Your father is waiting in a carriage around the corner. Friends of his are watching the entrance. If you make it outside the door, you are safe, do you understand?”

Lydie nodded. She was trembling, but seemed calm despite her paleness.

“Take that basket with the filthy sheets. The porter let me in; he will let you out. You are here today instead of the usual washerwoman Marie, who ran off with a porter from the Halles. That is all he knows.”

Makeup achieved the lines of an aged woman on her face, after which Corentin added smudges of dirt to make her features unrecognizable.

“It will have to suffice,” he said. “There is no time for more.”

Lydie looked as if she wanted to argue, but a look at his face convinced her otherwise. 

“I wish you would—” she began regardless.

“One woman came in. Only one can go out safely. To leave together would put you into danger. No no more arguments, my child. Think of your father!”

That remonstration finally seemed to achieve the trick. Lydie’s eyes filled with tears, but then she took a deep breath and straightened.

“Quick now,” he said. “Don’t speak to anyone—you are exhausted and they are already waiting for you in the next house. Understood?”

“Yes,” she said quietly and pressed his hand. “Do not wait too long, monsieur.”

Then she was gone. Corentin listened to the sound of her steps as she went down the stairs. She made it all the way to the door—and there, the porter addressed her again. Corentin could not make out what was said, for only the low, indistinct murmur of voices was carried up to him. But a short time later, there was the sound of the door, and then the house returned to silence.

Corentin exhaled in quiet relief and then closed his own door softly, locking it from within.

He would wait no longer than a few minutes, which would be enough time for Lydie to make her way around the corner where Peyrade and the carriage were waiting. To make his own escape would be harder; still, he was armed, and now no longer had to fear for Lydie’s safety.

Just to make certain, he allowed ten minutes pass. The house was still utterly silent. It had almost been too easy. For a moment, he played with the thought of further exploring the house to see if he could find a hint as to the identity of their formidable adversary. Herrera was no abbé, that much was certain now.

Still, it was foolish to invite danger when in a few minutes’ time, he would be able to return with ten of their agents. Furthermore, Herrera was clearly not in residence, and the usual business of a house of this sort would not start until the afternoon at least.

Having made up his mind, Corentin went to the door. Silently, he unlocked it once more with the madame’s key. The house was still quiet when he carefully opened it a crack.

Thus reassured, he stepped outside—only to suddenly find a strong arm come around him. A broad hand clamped over his mouth and nose, the second arm holding him so tightly that he could not reach for his hidden gun.

As he struggled silently with all his might, he could hear a deep voice chuckle into his ear.

“Finally. I have long desired to make your acquaintance.”

Herrera, Corentin realized in dismay, moments before he lost consciousness.

***

When he came to again, he was resting on something soft. For a long moment, he did not understand how he had come to be there. Somewhere in the back of his mind, there was a sense of urgency, but for some reason it was hard to think. His mind felt as if it was filled with sticky cobweb. It was a struggle to even open his eyes; once he finally succeeded, he had to blink for long minutes before his eyes no longer teared up at the light that seemed blindingly bright.

At last he realized that it was simply sunlight falling in through a window. He was resting on a bed in a tastefully decorated room. It was not his own bedroom—nor was he in Peyrade’s home.

“I see you are awake once more,” a voice said somewhere to his right. “Good.”

It was a deep, dark voice, which stirred a memory. A moment later, the bed he was resting on shifted; when he turned his head with effort, he found that a figure clad in a priest’s soutane had taken a seat by his side.

His eyes teared up again as he tried to focus on the man’s face. The light that filled the room was too bright, the clothes against his skin too harsh, his tongue too large for his mouth. He felt strangely raw, as if every nerve in his body was overwhelmed by the slightest sensation.

Drugs, he thought dimly. The realization did not bring the sudden alarm it should have caused, even though there was still a faint but insistent sense of urgency at the back of his mind. But all of his emotions seemed dulled, as if filtered through a veil.

A hand reached out. It held a white handkerchief, with which it began to wipe the tears from his eyes with surprising gentleness.

“Now, will you tell me your name? Or shall I tell you who I suspect you are?”

Corentin groaned weakly as a memory brought back the sensation of a large hand clasped over his mouth and nose, cutting off his air.

“Herrera,” he finally managed to force out, his tongue sluggish and not quite obeying his command yet.

The false Spaniard chuckled. “That is not your name, but I see you know who I am. And certainly you know why you are here.”

“Lydie,” Corentin murmured, more of his memories returning. Had they recaptured Lydie? But she was just a pawn in this game. They had no need for her, now that they had him.

“Oh, do not be concerned.” Herrera sounded almost cheerful. “You helped her escape. I am certain she is with her father even now. Unfortunately, once your friend tries to enter the house with the agents you brought, he will find it deserted. So let us waste no more time. Your friends do not know where you are. It is just you and me. And I have been longing for this opportunity for some time now, as I am certain you can imagine.”

Corentin licked his dry lips. He was thirsty; his tongue was as heavy as a stone in his mouth, his throat so tight it hurt to swallow. There was a bitter residue lingering at the back of his tongue that made him gag.

“What do you want?” he finally managed to force out.

“Your name, for one thing.” Herrera looked down at him with a condescending smile. “Come now, surely you will know that I already have an idea of who you might be.”

Corentin tried to contemplate his situation, although it was difficult to focus. Something had woven a web in his mind, and every thought was constantly beset by sticky tendrils that sought to divert it.

“Corentin,” he said at last.

Herrera’s smile widened. “There. Was that so hard?” he said condescendingly. “Truly, this would go easier for you if you would cooperate. We could both be friends. Would you not like that?”

A moment later, Herrera’s arm curved around Corentin’s back and helped him into an upright position. Then a glass was pressed against his lips. Corentin refused to drink, and Herrera chuckled.

“It is only eau sucré this time,” he said. “Here, look.”

He lifted the glass to his own mouth and sipped. When he pressed it to Corentin’s lips once more, Corentin drank reluctantly, although he had to admit that there was relief in quenching his thirst.

The water was cool and flowed down his throat easily, the sweetness of the sugar reviving him somewhat. His limbs would still not quite obey him, but it was easier to think.

“So, the famed Corentin. I assumed it was you they sent after us.”

“You are not truly a Spanish priest then?”

Herrera raised a sarcastic brow. “Do you think I will answer that, when it is you who are at my mercy?”

“What do you want?”

Herrera chuckled. “Not so fast. Should we not get to know each other first?”

“It seems to me you already know all there is to know about me.”

“About your friend and his daughter, yes. Ah, but the famed Corentin? I know of the Gondreville affair, and how it ended for those who opposed you. I am sure you will forgive me if I tell you that I have no desire to end in a similar situation. Thus, this little precaution.” Herrera gestured at the bed. 

“Hardly necessary,” Corentin said. “What do you have to fear from me?”

Herrera smiled slowly. Just as slowly, he reached out and rested his hand on Corentin’s ankle with the insouciance of a man caressing a coquettish mistress. Corentin drew in a breath as Herrera’s hand drew upward, making its way up beneath his skirts, past his knee. Herrera thoughtfully stroked the skin of his thigh with his thumb as he paused for a moment.

“An interesting disguise you have chosen,” he said.

Corentin allowed himself a cold smile. “You would have preferred me in my youth. I was told the golden locks and the fashions of those days were quite becoming on me. Or is that not what you cherish in your young friends?”

His lips curled, and despite the effects of the drug he held Herrera’s gaze.

After a moment, the priest smiled again. If anything, he spoke more merrily. “Then it is indeed a pity we did not meet in those days. Something tells me you might have been more tractable. Or more cooperative. A young man of beauty and cunning could have made it far.”

“I have,” Corentin said. “As you well know. So. What is it you want from me?”

Instead of an answer, Herrera’s hand began to glide further upward. Despite the drug-induced lethargy and the decades of danger he had already survived, Corentin felt something twist inside his stomach in revolt. Still. If that was all Herrera wanted from him, he could count himself lucky. Better him than poor Lydie, in any case, whose life would have been ruined.

Unless Herrera planned to kill him after making use of him—in which case Herrera’s little game would still give him valuable time.

“To start with, I want this.” Herrera smiled triumphantly as he grasped the small gun Corentin had concealed high up his thigh.

It was to have been expected, Corentin told himself. Herrera leaned away from him to place the gun on a table—and then he drew his hand once more up Corentin’s leg, pushing his skirts out of the way this time.

“Shall we see if there is another weapon you are hiding?”

Corentin knew where Herrera was reaching. Even so, it took effort to keep his face carefully stony as Herrera’s fingers curled around him.

“Oh, but so small and soft,” Herrera murmured as if he were truly disappointed by the discovery. “Then it is not true that you were the _young friend_ of Fouché?” He threw Corentin’s words back at him with a sarcastic smile.

Herrera’s hand was large, his fingers thick. In his triumph, he was almost genial, a merriness having overcome him that was somewhat heartening, for in his confidence he might make one of those small errors Corentin knew well how to exploit.

That confidence Herrera shared with Fouché—but that was where the similarity ended. Any lightheartedness Fouché might have possessed had been reserved for the wife he adored. Even during those months that Corentin had lived in their household after he had left the college of Vendôme, Fouché’s touch had never been accompanied by the endearments or playfulness a man might show his mistress. Fouché had shown his appreciation in lavish rewards for the services Corentin had rendered, both in the bedroom and later in the employ of the political police, and Corentin had been grateful for it. Even then he had known only too well where he would end up, had he not the means to support himself.

“Do you truly want to know?” Corentin asked.

“Would you answer truthfully?” Herrera laughed heartily before he leaned back over Corentin with the amusement of a cat playing with its prey. “If you did, maybe I would let you go after this.”

“Why would I believe you?” Corentin asked.

Herrera shrugged. “It is of no matter to me whether you do or not.”

Corentin inclined his head in acquiescence a moment later. Herrera was right, for he had nothing to lose—while for Corentin, it was his life that was at stake. What was there left but to begrudgingly play Herrera’s game, and on his terms? If Herrera killed him afterward, it made no difference, after all.

“Well then,” he said, trying to ignore the sensation of Herrera’s hand on him, “I was indeed of use to him when I was young. Both in the police and in more private matters.”

“Yes,” Herrera murmured. “You seem to me a man who knows how to be useful.”

Still smiling, Herrera’s huge hands gripped hold of the bodice of the dress Corentin was wearing. There were tufts of red hair growing on his fingers, Corentin noted, which did not agree with the dark hair upon his head. Certainly Herrera was dying it.

Then Herrera ripped open the bodice as if the sturdy linen was no more than flimsy paper. His smile widened when he spied the small dagger hidden there, and he removed it as well.

“How did he make use of you?”

Corentin eyed the table. It was easier now to think; much of the sticky cobwebs that had kept him from acting before had disappeared. Still, his limbs felt heavy and strangely languid. He was not entirely certain whether he would be able to walk, should he manage to get himself to stand; in any case, overwhelming Herrera was out of the question. The strength the man had revealed would have left him helpless even on a good day—and right now, Corentin felt as weak as a newborn kitten.

But then, neither bodily strength nor hidden weapon had ever been his most useful weapons...

“How do you think?” he said wryly, and then, as Herrera watched with gloating, added, “he took me into his bed—or sometimes, he liked the use of my mouth in his office.”

“A hardworking man, Fouché.” Herrera laughed.

Corentin’s lips tightened, although he caught himself just in time before coming to the defense of a man who had no need of it, for Fouché had been dead many years now.

A sign to be careful, he concluded. It was strange that this man should be able to get a rise out of him when Corentin had heard similar insinuations and insults so often back in those days.

It was a sign, perhaps, that he was not yet fully rid of the effects of the poison on the capacities of his mind. It would not do to underestimate Herrera; he needed to remember that.

Herrera’s smile widened; he had obviously caught Corentin’s reaction.

That was something to remember as well. Herrera was obviously a master himself at the game Corentin had played for more than half his life. But on which side was he playing? Surely not that of the Spanish king. As masterful as Herrera was, there was something off about him. A man of his stature, of such brutal strength, and such cunning...

Corentin could rather imagine him in the prison hulks than the court of Ferdinand VII.

“How long since that mouth was last put to use, I wonder?” Herrera mused.

“Fourteen years,” Corentin offered, and Herrera smiled in return.

“Not since he left for Rome then.”

“No,” Corentin said needlessly. He did not add that when Fouché had returned several years later to take up the ministry of police under Napoleon once more, Fouché’s interest in him had been wholly professional; what charm Corentin must have once held for him had vanished together with the remnants of Corentin’s youth. 

“Maybe I should test your skill.” Herrera reached down to pull up his soutane. “But I’d rather have your arse. How long has that been?”

Corentin glared at him, but his limbs still would not fully obey. “Just as long. How long has it been for you?”

Herrera chuckled. “I can see it has been a while since Fouché taught you manners.” He leaned over Corentin. “You’re not quite as pretty as I like,” he murmured into his ear, “but after such a long time, I bet your arse will be tighter than Lucien’s when the poor boy gave himself over to me the first time. Can you believe that he cried the whole time through? He is such a tender soul. You seem less tender to me. Shall we see what Fouché enjoyed in you?”

Herrera was truly nothing like Fouché—bent over him, with his imposing frame, his pockmarked face and his large hands that took what they wanted with little shyness, Corentin felt more like a traveler overwhelmed by a large beast in a forest. Herrera’s hands certainly felt like the powerful paws of a bear as they closed around his shoulders and arranged his body in a way that pleased him, and Corentin had to suppress an instinctive shudder at the sensation of his hot breath.

“I might be more enjoyable than you think,” he said. “More enjoyable alive than dead, anyway.”

He truly could see no reason why Herrera should let him live after this, but perhaps, if he were to turn it into a game...

“I’m not so certain of that.” Herrera laughed heartily as he bared his prick. It was hard, as large and powerful as everything else about the false Spaniard’s body, surrounded by a nest of reddish curls.

His hair was indeed dyed then.

“I think you’ve forgotten how to be pleasing. You’ve admitted yourself that it has been many years.”

“Some lessons you do not forget.” Corentin looked up at Herrera with calmness.

Herrera chuckled in return. “Then perhaps we will see just how pleasing you can be, after we are done here. Although I think you are past the age where you can be taught how to please.”

“Oh, I was taught well when I was the right age,” Corentin offered, taking note of how his body reluctantly began to obey when he tried to shift beneath Herrera.

The poison was definitely wearing off. Perhaps, if he managed to draw this out by making it so pleasurable that Herrera wanted it to last, there might be a final moment of surprise when Herrera was overwhelmed by release and Corentin could force his limbs to obey him and reach out for a weapon…

Herrera patted Corentin’s thigh with his large hand, then forced his legs to spread before he leaned away from him to reach out for something. Corentin once more tested the response of his muscles, but it was to no avail. Not yet, at least.

A moment later, the object of Herrera’s search became obvious, for he now smoothed oil over the sizable prick until it gleamed menacingly.

Herrera laughed again when he noticed Corentin’s stare. “I have no doubt this will not disappoint you, my dear little fellow.”

Herrera moved further forward; Corentin tensed instinctively when he felt him come to rest between his spread thighs.Then there was the familiar sensation of Herrera’s cock brushing against his hole. A moment later, Herrera pressed in.

The stretch felt immense; even so, Corentin managed to remain quiet.

It was nothing he had not known before, after all; had Herrera decided to kill him straightaway, he would be far worse off. What was this but a moment of unpleasantness?

Herrera thrust in, and despite the size of him and the ache of the violation, Corentin’s body yielded to it reluctantly.

Breathing in shallowly, Corentin could not help but note that his body had arched in response. When he clenched his fingers around the sheet beneath him, his muscles readily obeyed.

Little by little, the potion was wearing off. But was it happening quickly enough?

There was a smug triumph on Herrera’s face as he bent over Corentin. Despite his resolve, Corentin felt himself shiver instinctively.

Herrera’s physical prowess truly was intimidating, even to a man like him, who had dealt with more powerful foes. The false priest’s arms seemed as strong as tree trunks as they came to rest on either side of his shoulders. Herrera’s sleeves had been pushed up somewhat, and Corentin could now see that the hair that covered his arms was of the same reddish shade.

“Come now,” Herrera said merrily, “is that all Fouché had of you? I would have thought a man like him would have desired his pawns to be more eager for his embrace.”

Herrera’s hips came rolling forward against his again, and this time, Corentin gave himself up to the sensation with clenched teeth.

No, Herrera was nothing like Fouché at all—Fouché’s power and generosity had dazzled him when he was but a youth, but Fouché had never needed to force him to his bed. Corentin had come quite willingly.

And Fouché had never loomed above him as Herrera now did, laughing with triumph, serene in his physical prowess. Fouché’s superiority had been in his cunning—and his punishments, when the need arose, had been far more suited to instilling fear.

Even so, Corentin now forced himself to relax, no longer suppressing the moan that broke free when Herrera pushed deep inside him. The penetration still hurt—despite the oil, Herrera was very large, and it had been a long time.

Still, just as it had been back then, there was pleasure in submission too, heat springing up within him at every thrust.

“That is more like what I expected from you,” Herrera murmured hoarsely—and then he bent down to press his mouth to Corentin’s, who obediently parted his lips.

The kiss, too, made him shudder—had it truly been so long that it was so easy for Herrera to unsettle him now?

Perhaps it had been too log, for despite his distaste at having to yield to his foe, there was a certain pleasure in the act—different to those encounters with Fouché whom he had been so desperate to please, but undeniably there all the same.

He gritted his teeth, but it was to no avail; whenever Herrera pushed into him, heat sprung up inside him, until at last Herrera took note of his arousal with a sound of amusement.

“I see you did not lie,” Herrera said gloatingly. “Perhaps Fouché had you better trained than I assumed. Why, perhaps there will not be a need to have you killed—you could be useful to me, and I would reward you in much the same ways you are already accustomed to.”

Corentin panted for breath. When Herrera thrust into him again, it drew a gasp from him. Some instinct took over then, long-forgotten but now taking control of his body, which arched in such a way that now even the smallest motion of Herrera sent an agonizing pleasure through him.

Panting for breath, his achingly hard cock trapped between their bodies where it rubbed against Herrera’s soutane with every thrust, Corentin nevertheless did not fail to take notice of the way his body could move easily now—even if it was only in reaction to Herrera’s possession of him.

Herrera kissed him again. Corentin allowed that too, just as he allowed his body to give in to the pleasure of the violation. Groaning against Herrera’s lips, he tightened around him as he found his climax at last. The sensation was intense, driving tears to his eyes again, and was accompanied by the shudder of the powerful body atop him, the heat of Herrera’s release filling him in a hot rush.

It was the moment Corentin had waited for.

Quick as a snake, he struck, violently throwing himself to the side—close to the nightstand where Herrera has deposited his gun. Corentin clenched his teeth as he forced his weakened body to do his bidding despite the remnants of the poison, which was only unwillingly releasing its grasp on him.

He did not make it.

His fingertips touched the grip of his gun in the same moment when Herrera’s larger hand closed around his wrist.

“Come now, these are hardly good bedside manners.”

Herrera sounded barely out of breath. As much as Corentin tried to twist in his grasp, the man’s physical might was such that Corentin could not get lose.

All distraction was gone now. Herrera, who but moments ago had seemed overwhelmed by pleasure, close to collapsing on top of Corentin, was now staring at him with bright, sharp eyes that gleamed with a fierce amusement.

It had been a trap, Corentin realized with sinking stomach. As he had tried to trap Herrera, anticipating the man’s desire for him, so Herrera had trapped him in turn, anticipating that Corentin would not let such an opportunity pass unused.

It was truly formidable. He had never faced a foe like this.

“You must be the devil himself,” Corentin said wryly. “And after such an exertion too.”

“From what I have heard, it is you, my dear fellow, who rules in hell. As pleasant as it was to make your acquaintance, I am certain you will understand that I truly have no choice but to send you back to where you belong.”

Corentin’s smile did not waver at the threat, in which he could hear a tinge of regret.

“I would expect nothing else.”

Perhaps, the moment when Herrera reached for the gun, there might be a heartbeat of opportunity—although it seemed all too likely now that Corentin would indeed end his career here.

Then, all of a sudden, a loud bang echoed somewhere below. Someone screamed, and then there was the sound of boots on a stair.

Herrera reared back. Keeping his eyes on Corentin in deep suspicion, he hastily grabbed hold of his gun, holding it aimed at Corentin as he stepped back from the bed. His soutane fell into place once more to hide the proof of what had come to pass mere moments ago.

“It seems that Hell sent a contingent of its demons to welcome you as well as me,” Corentin said brightly. “Will you not stay? I am certain Monsieur Peyrade will be pleased at a chance to converse with you.”

Herrera’s eyes darkened. There was a sudden fury in them, and a bright bitterness.

“I am afraid that will have to wait until another day,” Herrera said amiably. “Nevertheless, I assure you that I shall not forget the pleasure of the conversation we shared.”

For a moment, Corentin wondered whether Herrera was planning on flinging himself out of the window. Instead, he stepped towards a wall, which, after Herrera touched some hidden mechanism, sprung open before him.

A heartbeat later, it closed again and Herrera was gone. When Peyrade burst into the room, no trace of him remained but the ache of Corentin’s body and the seed trickling down his thighs.

“Close the door, will you?” he said to Peyrade.

“What happened?” Peyrade stared at him with obvious concern, but nevertheless closed the door as he had been bid, leaving the agents who had followed him to search the house. “You are well?”

“I have been better,” Corentin admitted after a moment, biting back a groan as he forced himself to sit up. While his body was at last following his command once more, his limbs still felt as weak as if he had just risen from a long convalescence.

Herrera had planned well. Corentin would not be giving chase today.

“There is a secret door in that wall. Herrera left through it.”

He gestured towards the corner that had swallowed Herrera. Peyrade, uncharacteristically, did not act. Instead, he was still staring at Corentin with wide eyes.

A moment later, Corentin realized that sitting up had dislodged the blanket. He waved Peyrade’s concern away.

“Hurry up,” he said. “While I have no doubt that the man will have escaped, you might yet chance upon a hint.”

“Are you—” Peyrade began again, taking a step towards him instead of towards the door.

Biting back a curse, Corentin drew himself up onto his feet, holding on to the bed as his knees trembled. “Hurry, I said. I am perfectly well, as you can see.”

Peyrade did not look as if he believed him, but then, Corentin already knew that age had indeed begun to soften Peyrade with sentimentality. As Peyrade reluctantly went towards the hidden door, Corentin stumbled towards the window.

There was no coach to be seen in the street below, no black-clad priest fleeing the house. He did not doubt that Herrera had already escaped this place; it had been too well-planned for Herrera to misstep now.

And yet, Herrera had played his hand too early. He had been foolish to try and use Lydie against him—for while it was true that the girl was Peyrade’s weakness, they now knew what the priest’s weakness was.

Lucien Rubempré.

Why else go to such an effort—why show his hand at last? It had to have been the threat to Rubempré’s success that had finally made Herrera come out of the shadows.

Corentin smiled to himself. A moment later, he realized that Peyrade had found the mechanism that opened the door—yet instead of stepping through it, Peyrade was watching him worriedly.

Corentin allowed his smile to widen. “Tomorrow,” he said, “we will pay Lucien a visit. Think of how that priest will dance when we have his toy in our grasp.”

For all that Herrera had thought to use Fouché against him, in the end, it was Corentin who had gained the most—for Fouché was dead, their past relationship irrelevant.

But Lucien was alive, and well-loved by the priest, it seemed. How would the boy hold up to interrogation or the cold bars of a prison cell?

Not well at all. And through him, neither would Herrera. Whether it took one year or ten, in the end, he would have the false priest where he belonged.


End file.
